Mark Twain, a Biography. Complete eBook

“In which one of your works can we find the
definition of a gentleman?” Then he added:

I have not answered that telegram.
I couldn’t. I never wrote any such
definition, though it seems to me that if a man has
just, merciful, and kindly instincts he would
be a gentleman, for he would need nothing else
in this world.

He opened a letter. “From Howells,”
he said.

My old friend, William Dean Howells—­Howells,
the head of American literature. No one is
able to stand with him. He is an old, old friend
of mine, and he writes me, “To-morrow I shall
be sixty-nine years old.” Why, I am
surprised at Howells writing so. I have known
him myself longer than that. I am sorry to see
a man trying to appear so young. Let’s
see. Howells says now, “I see you have
been burying Patrick. I suppose he was old,
too.”

The house became very still. Most of them had
read an account of Mark Twain’s journey to Hartford
and his last service to his faithful servitor.
The speaker’s next words were not much above
a whisper, but every syllable was distinct.

No, he was never old-Patrick. He
came to us thirty-six years ago. He was our
coachman from the day that I drove my young bride to
our new home. He was a young Irishman, slender,
tall, lithe, honest, truthful, and he never changed
in all his life. He really was with us but
twenty-five years, for he did not go with us to Europe;
but he never regarded that a separation.
As the children grew up he was their guide.
He was all honor, honesty, and affection. He was
with us in New Hampshire last summer, and his
hair was just as black, his eyes were just as
blue, his form just as straight, and his heart just
as good as on the day we first met. In all the
long years Patrick never made a mistake.
He never needed an order; he never received a
command. He knew. I have been asked for my
idea of an ideal gentleman, and I give it to you—­Patrick
McAleer.

It was the sort of thing that no one but Mark Twain
has quite been able to do, and it was just that recognized
quality behind it that had made crowds jam the street
and stampede the entrance to be in his presence-to
see him and to hear his voice.

CCXLI

GORKY, HOWELLS, AND MARK TWAIN

Clemens was now fairly back again in the wash of banquets
and speech-making that had claimed him on his return
from England, five years before. He made no less
than a dozen speeches altogether that winter, and
he was continually at some feasting or other, where
he was sure to be called upon for remarks. He
fell out of the habit of preparing his addresses,
relying upon the inspiration of the moment, merely
following the procedure of his daily dictations, which
had doubtless given him confidence for this departure
from his earlier method. There was seldom an
afternoon or an evening that he was not required, and
seldom a morning that the papers did not have some
report of his doings. Once more, and in a larger
fashion than ever, he had become “the belle of
New York.” But he was something further.
An editorial in the Evening Mail said: